


darling, your worth is in more than gold

by shell-heads (chocopies)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: 5k of Steve Rogers being ridiculously in love with Tony Stark, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Childhood Friends, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-25 02:02:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13824144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocopies/pseuds/shell-heads
Summary: Tony's hands are the kind that create new worlds and opportunities for people who haven't learned what it means to live and not survive, hands that touch paper and make it bloom into something beautiful on a level beyond art because it saves lives and homes and is only the very tip of what he can do with those hands calloused from hard work and determination."I'm sorry about your hands," Tony says, and Steve laughs."Tony," Steve tells him, quiet and plaintive as he spreads his bloody, bruised hands out. "I use these hands to draw something and it changes nothing. You use your hands, you could make a machine that saves an entire third world country halfway across the world."





	darling, your worth is in more than gold

**Author's Note:**

> my fill for the cap-ironman alphabet challenge's letter 'h'; the prompt i chose to write was "hands". there are pg-13 descriptions of violence and swearing because they're both angsty teenagers, thus why it's rated t, but it's got a happy and fluffy ending! 
> 
> background: steve and tony are in highschool, somewhere around 16/17 in an au where tony was homeschooled until highschool bc of a heart condition and as such is filled w/ angst nd has formed his hard outer shell around his soft bits dealing w/ the hateful student body. steve never met bucky bc he was a live-in hospital patient until he was ten, and tony has only ever met three people who care for him: steve, jarvis, and sarah rogers.

" _He's just his daddy's little whore, you know. The only reason people like him and think he's so great is because they're paid to-he'd be nothing if it weren't for his pretty looks and his daddy's money."_

The skin on his knuckles is split, raw and bloody and still nowhere near as painful as the lava forcefully broiling inside of him, demanding _more_.

He punches Justin Hammer right in the face, once, twice, three times, relishing in the terrified whimpers it induces; watching him bruise like a peach underneath Steve's hands helps release some of the burning hatred that emerges when he thinks of the words Hammer'd said earlier, air stale with murderous intent and spine crackling like a continous lightning strike. Steve's no muscle pig even with all the weight he's managed to gain since freshman year, but Hammer's got less skin and bones that Steve does, which makes it all the more _satisfying_ to know the one person who deserves a beating the most is the person whose ass he can whoop to next Sunday and back without a sweat.

There's blood rushing in his ears like a roar of thunder, anger sparking off in his veins until his teeth _ache_ with it. Tony's hands are suddenly wrapped around him, holding him down so he can't go flying at Hammer again like he wants to, the sound of laughter and music from the ballroom only a faint background noise.

"Steve, stop it, you have to _stop_ ," Tony's saying over the bellow in his ears, and Steve just barely manages to swallow it down a little so he can turn to listen to Tony.

"Steve, come on, we gotta go," Tony whispers, sounding worried, and Steve wants to do a million things right now-but not a single one of them involves making Tony upset. He starts pulling back, taking in a deep breath to calm himself as best he can for Tony's sake when Hammer pipes up again, nasal and high-pitched from his place as a crumpled stain on the floor.

"See? He's already _whoring_ himself out so people can fight his battles for him," Hammer spits out with blood on his lips, eyes full of loathing. The fury Steve had been attempting to simmer down bursts into hot flames all over again, gasoline topping off a forest fire and hell-bent on spitting out its victims as smokey bits of ash, and he reaches for Hammer's collar to choke out a violent, " _Shut up,_ " between his teeth just as Tony hugs him from behind and drags him back.

"Steve, he's not worth it, we gotta go," Tony repeats with a hushed voice, looking over his shoulder at the bustling party going on only two feet away.

He realizes distantly that Tony doesn't want him to get kicked out for causing trouble, and he knows Tony really wanted to make his parents happy by entertaining the guests and charming them out of the contents of their large pockets, wanted to try and make them _proud_ despite how many times he's said he doesn't care what they think anymore-but the urge to beat Justin Hammer into a bloody smear on the floor is so overwhelming he almost gives into it wholly.

Almost.

"If you ever so much as throw him a dirty look again," Steve grits out, his words quiet but heavy as the crack of a whip against bare skin, "I'll make sure it's the last thing you ever do."

" _Steve_ ," Tony whispers one last time, and he turns around without another word to follow Tony out a back door into a service hallway, Tony's hands sweaty but firm around his own as they guide him around the mansion.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Tony's chanting desperately as they narrowly avoid being seen by his mother, laden with gleaming pearls and a beautifully painted smile as she directs a server with drinks to another room. "Where the hell is Jarvis?"

Steve's silent, still working on reducing his red-hot rage into something more palatable and focusing on the touch of Tony's palm against his, grounding and warm and more important than anyone or anything in this household. When they finally round the corner into a hallway full of guest rooms, Tony glances behind them and swears underneath his breath one more time before ducking into an empty room.

"C'mon, we gotta get your hand all fixed up-dammit, I really wish Jarvis was here," Tony's babbling, setting Steve down on a large bed in the middle of a room as he heads into the connecting bathroom, rummaging through cabinets as Steve tries to unwind the throbbing tension in his jaw.

"Tony," he breathes out slowly, shifting his attention to the boy scrambling for a first aid kit, "I'm fine."

"You are _not_ fine, Steven, and you need to shut up for a minute," Tony hisses before letting his head rest against cherry dark wood for a moment, chest heaving. Feeling somewhat guilty, Steve subsides and watches as Tony finally reaches the back of the cabinet and pulls out the first aid kit.

Dragging a chair from the desk in the corner, Tony sits himself in front of Steve and opens the kit, taking Steve's hand in his own with a gentle touch that surprises him after the anxious shaking earlier.

"God dammit, Steve," Tony whispers frustratedly as he stares at the raw skin on Steve's knuckles, swollen and bloody. He thinks it could have been worse all things considered, and is honestly only sorry he didn't get to punch Hammer one more time, but clearly Tony feels differently, his face twisting up in a combination of anger and fear that Steve hopes isn't because he's ruined all of Tony's hard work tonight.

Tugging his hand closer to see better, Tony closes his eyes and swallows when the skin shows up even more broken and bruised under the light, breathing in deeply and leaning over Steve's hand as if to regain his composure. His forehead is hot against the back of Steve's hand, his breath forcing Steve to hold back a shudder as it brushes over his knuckles.

"Your hands," Tony chokes out, voice taught with something that has the beginnings of a scream. "Steve, you're an _artist_. What were you thinking? Your hands are gonna be messed up for a month, knowing your body."

Suddenly still, heart thrumming in his throat, Steve feels something in him become bitter and fracture into tiny pieces when he realizes Tony's been freaking out because he's upset _Steve's_ hurt, been more frantic and scared and trembling than he's ever let on before because this whole time he was worrying for _Steve_ and not the fact that Steve just punched a family business partner in the middle of a Stark gala, and that's-

"How the hell am I supposed to fix this?" Tony croaks, breaking Steve's heart all over again. "Jarvis only taught me how to deal with little things, and you're sitting here with a dislocated finger telling me you're fine, and you're _not_ fine, Steve."

He takes a shuddering breath and straightens up slowly as Steve resists the urge to kick himself for doing this to Tony, his heart a collection of tiny beating shreds in his chest at the broken look on the face in front of him.

"It wasn't worth it, Steve," Tony rasps weakly, which is such a _lie_ -Steve wraps his bloody hand around Tony's and squeezes hard, drawing Tony's eyes to his.

"I don't need Jarvis," Steve murmurs quietly, gaze fierce and mesmerizing in the dimly lit room, the lamp throwing light over his bright blue eyes. "I don't need anyone else when you're here."

Tony's face softens before him, young and soft and so painfully gorgeous, and Steve means to say something along the lines of how Tony should have _t_ _old_ him before that this happens, that he has to deal with this all the time alone, but what comes out instead is, "You're perfect, Tony."

He can see in the widening of brown eyes and tiny fall of Tony's mouth that he wasn't expecting that, but Steve can't really bring himself to say anything else now that the words have made their appearance.

"You're perfect," Steve repeats firmly as Tony stares, hands fisting around Tony's loose hold when he thinks about Justin Hammer's bullshit spiel. "And you're better and smarter than anyone in this entire damn mansion."

There's something wet about Tony's lashes when he blinks rapidly, his hands squeezing Steve's, and Steve wants to lean over and pull him into a hug-kiss his head and tell him how much _more_ he is than anyone Steve's ever met, how strong and wonderful and smart he is-but he knows it's not his place right now, knows Tony doesn't take well to these kinds of things because of his deeply-seated insecurities. There's so much to Tony other people don't understand, can't understand, and all he can think of when he sees Tony is the boy who grew up with a congenital heart condition he hid from the entire world, the same boy who visited the hospital for a press conference with his mom and stuck around every day afterwards for a weak asthmatic with every kind of health condition possible because he wanted to be friends. He sees the boy who wants to make things better and help people like Mrs. Stark does, admires Steve's mother more than anyone else in the world for working hard and taking care of Steve. He sees all of this and falls in love a little bit more every day with this boy, and he can't say _any_ of that because he's afraid he'll lose Tony to the walls that keep him apart from everyone else in the world if he does.

Tony works his mouth uselessly, unable to figure out what to say, and Steve can't quite stop himself; he moves forward to lean his forehead against Tony's loose waves of curls, inhaling the sweetly spicy cologne he must have put on for the gala and breathing out his words in the scant space between them.

"You deserve better than that, Tony," Steve swears savagely, "and you're nothing like Justin Hammer and all those stupid phonies in that room over there. You're not just a-a _trophy_ boy, or something to be thrown around because you're useless. You're the person who's gonna go out there and fucking change the world, and the only reason people talk shit is because they know it too, and they _hate_ it."

"Steve," his voice cracks, but Steve's not done, shaking his head aggressively.

"It was absolutely worth it to punch Justin Hammer in the face, and I'd have done it again and again if you didn't want me to stop, Tony, and you know why? Because no one in this whole damn world has the right to talk to you like that or make you feel like shit-not Hammer, not your dad, not any of the kids at school, and I'm never gonna let you sit there and take it. I got two hands for a reason; who cares if one of them is beat up for a bit? One hand is just as good as the other."

Tony's shaking now, both of his hands wrapped around Steve's sore and broken knuckles like a lifeline, his breath stuttering onto Steve's neck, and Steve wants to hug him so badly it makes his entire being lurch forward for a moment, fisting his other hand into the fabric of his pants instead to bite down on the urge.

"If I had to choose between my hands and you," Steve grates out, "I would choose you everytime."

A choked sob, the glitter of something liquid-clear as it falls to the floor, and Steve becomes dizzy with the effort it takes to not fold Tony in his arms and let him cry properly like he _deserves_ , to hold him and ground him the way Tony's never been able to have from anyone before.

They stay like that for what feels like hours and yet nowhere near long enough when Tony pulls away, eyes glassy and wet, mouth trembling like a leaf in the wind and seemingly just as frail.

"It wasn't worth it," Tony repeats with the bare bones of what could be considered a smile, "but-I'm glad you did it anyways."  
  
Steve takes his words for the thanks they are, bringing his other hand up to ruffle through Tony's hair so he can get a minute to work through the burning lump in his throat.

"Anytime," Steve promises hoarsely, Tony's smile turning into something less faint and sad.

"Alright," Tony exhales as he leans back to recollect himself, plucking out an antiseptic wipe from the first aid for Steve's hands. He opens it and folds it up for better precision, glancing up at Steve before leaning in closer to dab at the skin carefully. He pauses when Steve hisses in pain, biting his lip, and keeps going despite the wrinkle between his brows.

"You'll have to ask someone trained to set this back in," Tony tells him quietly, gesturing to his purpling middle finger. "It'll be bad if a person who doesn't know how messes up and your hands get ruined. Your mom is your best bet, obviously, but anyone you know who can do it as soon as possible would be good too."

Steve nods, barely hearing his words as he holds his breath, heart frantically thumping in his chest with Tony's sole attention on his thin hands; sweet musk floats up to Steve's nose again and the feel of rough, warm skin on his dries his mouth until he feels his throat click around the heart that's beat its way into his throat in the past minute. It's something special to see Tony focus his entire being on something that isn't a machine of some kind, and having all that because Tony's taking care of him, worrying over him...

It takes Steve apart on a molecular level, where every tiny bit of him is awed and shaking and head-over-heels in love, tiny specks of being that are beyond living but forever gravitating into Tony's magnetic fields.

Said attractive being is needlessly layering neosporin on him when he hesitates, looking over to the gauze he has on the side as if wondering whether or not he should wrap up his hands with the dislocated finger, and a smile flickers over Steve's face.

"You can wrap it up if you want," Steve murmurs, Tony observing him for a moment before nodding.

He does it delicately, gently folding it around Steve's hands with such care it has Steve feeling light-headed with longing, something akin to the sweet crunch of a sugar cube bursting in his mouth and leaving him warm and liquid inside.

When he finishes layering it, Tony clips the gauze tightly, rubbing a thumb over the fabric before gesturing for Steve's left hand. Feeling Tony's touch like a brand of fire on his skin, he reluctantly lifts his other hand up for treatment, swallowing around the incessant thrumming in his ears and wishing he'd never have to let go.

Tony's just as gentle as he was with Steve's right hand, lightly cleaning the split skin and applying liberal amounts of neosporin prior to wrapping it. When all's done, Steve's hands are still hot, marked and throbbing everywhere he was touched while Tony packs away the first aid kit, closing it with a firm _click_ of the latch. The room is quiet, their eyes falling on each other in the yellow light of the lamp and locking in place.

There's heat spreading underneath Steve's skin like the first touch of the warm sun when he walks outside, starting in the middle of his chest and spreading to his neck and arms and legs until all of him is hot to the touch with something he has no words to express. Tony's eyes are so so brown, glittering and ringed with dark lashes that cast shadows over his cheeks, his skin a smooth molten gold and soft as snow except for where his hands are calloused from working with heavy machinery, and all Steve can think of is how this world doesn't deserve him; Tony, with all his otherworldly beauty and dazzling intelligence and fatal kindness and the facades he uses to protect himself against a world that doesn't appreciate people meant to be something better.

"I'm sorry about your hands," is what Tony chooses to break the silence with, unable to help glancing at the dislocated finger Steve's sporting.

"It doesn't matter," Steve replies honestly, lips quirking when Tony looks upset at his words.

"Tony," Steve laughs, quiet and plaintive as he spreads his hands out. "So what if I'm an artist? I use these hands to draw something and it changes nothing. You use your hands, you could make a machine that saves an entire third world country halfway across the world. I don't care about my hands-they'll be fine."

Tony's hands are the kind that create new worlds and opportunities for people who haven't learned what it means to live and not survive, hands that touch paper and make it bloom into something beautiful on a level beyond art because it saves lives and homes and is only the very _tip_ of what he can do with those hands calloused from hard work and determination.

"Tony, c'mon," he scolds when his friend has no answer other than a unreadable twist of his mouth, "I wouldn't be an artist if something this little stopped me."

There's still that same strange twist to his mouth Steve doesn't understand, but its been combined with that same brightness in Tony's eyes he had right before he cried, the one that means Steve's said something that makes Tony feel conflicted because he's never had anyone say that before-never had this level of _care_ directed towards him-and it makes Steve viscerally satisfied that he can give this to him. Tony realizing how much he's cared for is trumpets bursting into song just underneath Steve's lungs, odes to accomplishments well done transcribing themselves on his bones, the feeling of complete and utter _joy_ when everything in the world is against you and you win anyways.

A sudden knock on the door breaks his train of thought, destroying the still air between them, their eyes flying to the side of the room as Jarvis' voice filters through the wood.

"Master Tony, your mother requires your presence at the gala before your father notices," he informs them, Tony paling slightly when he opens the door and sees Jarvis' arch look, hands immediately reaching up to fix the mess his hair has become into something much more presentable with a small tub of product Jarvis pulls out of thin air.

"I got it, Jarvis, thanks," Tony mumbles as he bats away the hands and takes the mousse for himself, sighing. He turns to Steve, tired and so clearly reluctant to leave him it makes Steve want to shield him from the world forever. "Steve..."

"Go," Steve encourages, knowing what'll happen if Mr. Stark finds out Tony skipped the event halfway after getting into a fight with someone. "I'll be here."

"Yeah?" Tony perks up, trying not to sound too hopeful and failing.

"Yeah," Steve echoes in reply, smiling with his bangs dusting over his forehead. "Can't get rid of me that easy, Stark."

"Don't I know it," Tony fires in return, relief written all over his face at their easy back and forth. He turns to face Jarvis again, mouth opening-

"I'll make sure Master Steven is quite comfortable in his wait," Jarvis assures him, Tony's mouth stretching into a grateful grin.

"Thanks, Jarvis," he says to his caretaker, nodding at Steve one last time before heading into the fray.

"Well, Master Steven," Jarvis hums while entering the room, "what ails you today?"

"I kinda dislocated my finger earlier," Steve answers, waving said injured hand in the air. "Anything you could do about that, maybe?"

"There is indeed," Jarvis responds with a raised brow as he sits himself upon the chair Tony had been in not two minutes ago. "Does this finger perhaps have anything to do with the young Hammer boy walking out with a bloody nose just earlier?"

"My ma says there's no point in asking questions you already know the answer to, Mr. Jarvis," Steve replies cheekily, grin widening when Jarvis clucks his tongue with a fond twinkle in his eye.

"Your mother is quite the fount of wisdom," Jarvis contends, unwrapping the gauze to take a proper look at Steve's hand.

"Ain't she just," Steve laughs, brushing his hair out of his face when it falls too low, tangling in his eyelashes.

"This will hurt," Jarvis announces right before setting the finger back into the joint, surprising Steve into a yell as pain lances through him like a lightning bolt.

" _Oh_ , hell in a handbasket!" Steve swears while rocking back and forth, his finger tingling with hurt.

"Language, Master Steven," Jarvis chides in amusement, hiding his smile behind his gloved hands when Steve scowls.

"You know, Jarvis, I think Tony's sass is more _you_ than anyone else in this house," Steve mutters sorely, blue eyes flashing with challenge.

There's a pause, long enough that it makes Steve look up from where he's been observing his newly set finger to see what happened. Jarvis' face is the picture of surprise-his shock shapes his face into something achingly weary and old, wrinkles prominent valleys and pregnant with stories of hardship, the edges of his mouth weighed down with the constant urge to frown instead of smile-and then morphs into something more intimately soft like the first bloom of a night flower before Steve's eyes in a way that makes him strangely self-conscious.

"That's quite the compliment, Master Steven," is all he says in return, looking all of a hundred years too old and wearing a smile that speaks of years of effort and heartbreak as he draws Steve's hand forward to wrap it up with the gauze again.

Steve suddenly realizes that for all his jokes, Jarvis really _has_ raised Tony since he was young; he's all Tony ever willingly talks about when it comes to his home life, has been there for all of Tony's firsts, his bests and worsts-for all intents and purposes, Jarvis is Tony's family. He imagines trying to care for Tony in a cold, empty household like this where his parents are either gone or the definition of distant, trying to help love and support a boy too smart for his age and too small for his mind for years and years, and Steve-

Steve is so unbelievably and intensely thankful for Edwin Jarvis he feels like he might choke on the gratitude that swells up in his throat like a tidal wave of stinging nettle and bright red carnations, pained and admiring and now a constant mark in his memory.

"Thank you, Jarvis," Steve blurts out, heart trembling with criss-crossing pipes of feeling. He should probably have added more to explain what he means, but Jarvis meets his gaze and he knows right then and there he doesn't need to; there's kindness and understanding and a reciprocal gratitude in his eyes that _confounds_ Steve to his very bones, but Jarvis undoubtedly understood what he meant.

"I'm simply doing as asked, Master Steven," Jarvis replies with a smile as fleeting and meaningful as a glittering shooting star, standing up to brush himself free of imaginary dust.

"Not really," Steve says, grin lop-sided and shaky, "but you've always been good at reading between lines that don't exist, I think."

"I do believe I'll take that as a compliment," Jarvis answers airily, returning the first aid kit to the bathroom and heading for the door.

"It is," Steve confirms, watching light spill into the room when he opens it.

Looking back, Jarvis begins his leave by saying, "If you find yourself in need of my assistance, Master Steven-"

"I know where to find you," Steve agrees, throwing him a salute.

"I do believe so, yes," Jarvis hums, his voice completely devoid of the weight it carried earlier. "You may sleep here tonight as well, if you wish. Your mother has kindly provided her permission for your extended stay allowing that you-as she says-' _don't pick fights with boys too spoiled to know their backside from their front,'_ Master Steven."

Grin blowing out into something wildly cheerful and laced with gratitude, Steve whoops despite the flush on his cheeks at being called out via Jarvis.

"You're a gentleman and a scholar, Jarvis," Steve tells him in delighted awe, fully aware that the only way his mother would have agreed to his staying over is if Jarvis had called and convinced her before even coming to the room. "A true gift."

"Far be it from me to convince you otherwise," came his reply as the door shut, Steve's laugh following him out into the hallway.

Throwing himself onto the bed with abandon and thinking on the events of the past hour or so, Steve climbs his way to the top of the bed so he can lay his head on the pillow, startled by how soft and luxurious it feels beneath his head. It figures being rich has to be good for _something_ if you didn't have a good family or any friends, he thinks, though he'd rather be penniless and surrounded by the people he loves than be alone and glamorously wealthy. Feeling exhausted all of a sudden, Steve reaches over to turn the lamp off and resolves to take a small nap until the end of the gala to regain his energy and see Tony immediately afterwards to tell him the good news.

"He'll go crazy," Steve yawns, remembering a conversation not so long ago where Tony admitted he'd never had a friend sleepover before, casual and entirely fake in that way he always speaks when he talks about things he doesn't want anyone to think he considers important.

' _It's not like I have a lot of friends anyway,'_ he'd said with a shrug as he fiddled with the screw on a warped piece of machinery. ' _It'll probably never happen, so there's no point wondering.'_

"Just a quick nap," Steve mumbles to himself, drifting off in the comfort of the soft bed with its silk sheets and warm duvet.

What feels like only minutes later, he hears the click of the door opening like a sound from a far-away land, still caught in the clutches of sleep as the person halts suddenly before slowly making their way over to the bed. Mind hazy, Steve distantly realizes it's Tony-who else would it be, other than Tony?-and feels the dip in the mattress when he sits on the edge, quiet in the dark.

He's slowly falling back into sleep when Tony finally does something, hand moving across the bed to hesitantly touch the hand Steve had flung out in his sleep earlier, sending Steve's conscious into a strange state of dull, throbbing awareness. Tony traces the lines of Steve's fingers, rounding into the soft of his palm with the tips of his own index finger, a sensation that makes Steve want to shudder with irrepressible need. Slowly, carefully, Tony laces their hands together, leaving Steve's breath to struggle as it's caught somewhere between his lungs and lost, his mind just barely awake enough to be glad for the lack of light that would reveal the creeping flush overtaking him.

"You said I could save an entire third world country with these hands," Tony whispers almost inaudibly, his words stirring the air in the previously silent room, "said-said your hands couldn't change anything or save anyone."

Tentatively, Tony slides into bed next to Steve, their faces mere inches apart and seperated only by the clasp of their hands in between.

"You were wrong," Tony breathes, small and fragile and so unlike the brave front Steve is used to seeing him parade around in now.

"They saved _me_ ," Tony says, and it's all Steve can do to not squeeze Tony's hand out of shock until they're one lump of conjoined flesh and their bones are melted together, his eyes burning so strongly he thinks no amount of tears could quench the fire that burst within him, roaring and crackling underneah his ribs and spreading to his brain, climbing into new levels of himself he didn't know existed.

His mouth is sealed shut as if it can stop the burnt-yellow burst of honeyed emotion pouring itself down his throat and feeding the strange wriggling creature in his stomach made of caramelized longing, broken at some tips so that it's wicked sharp but just as jaw-achingly _sweet_ , dripping and dripping until Steve is left drowning in liquid gold and shining stars, flowers blooming in the roots of his veins to send vines of creeping affection loose over his skin.

He wants to say something, to tell Tony how he feels about him and never stop, to hold him close until Steve and Tony are SteveandTony, one uniform being that's transformed into a single body of life, opens his mouth but can't find the breath to say-

"I love you," Steve chokes out into the dark, grasping for air, unable to help himself anymore, and Tony's laughing, bright and beautiful and _happy_ , obliterating every thought in Steve's head but this moment-

"I know," Tony hiccups, laugh watery and thin when Steve reaches out with his other hand to hold his cheek for no other reason than that he's _allowed_ to now, heart beating a joyful symphony he's never heard before in the weak concaves of his mouth, "I love you too, you dumbass."

Steve laughs too, weak and strained and no less relieved for it, knocking his head into Tony's so he can feel Tony's perfect curls flatten against his bangs, their breaths becoming one in the pocket of air remaining between, a single tear escaping the corner of his eye in the safe cover of the night's darkness.

"Hey," Steve rasps giddily, tangling their legs, "I didn't see you out there confessing your feelings to the love of your life first either, dumbass."

"That's because everyone with eyes and two damn brain cells can tell the second they look at me unless their name is Steve Rogers," Tony complains, turning into Steve's touch at his cheek and squeezing their hands.

Breath catching again, Steve blinks away the fresh wave of tears threatening to overtake him, a small 'oh' slipping past his lips.

"Yeah, _oh_ ," Tony teases, knocking a shoulder into Steve's gently. "Asshole. Give a guy all the signs in the world and he's clueless as a first grader."

"And what does that make you for knowing and not doing anything, then?" Steve argues, realizing as colored shards pieced themselves together to form a clearer picture with every word Tony said.

"Afraid," Tony answers without hesitation, sending Steve into shock. "Afraid, and lonely, and a dumbass."

"Well," Steve croaks, struggling for a response that isn't the explosion of red-gold fireworks in his bloodstream, a whole new element forming out of twisted fragments of jagged spires and delicate bits of precious metals dragged from his weak spine, "It's good you're none of those anymore."

Smiling into Steve's palm, Tony choose to use actions instead of words, leaning in the scant space between them until Steve can just barely see the glitter of his eyes in the dark.

Tony's mouth is soft, plush and warm against Steve's, moving with a gentle passion that tells Steve stories he never knew-a kiss that sends tingles down his spine into the curl of his toes, lights up the stardust drifting in his arteries into a velvet glow of tender elation, transforms the ugliest and bloodiest parts of him into a distant, healed scar instead of an open, cumbersome wound.

Steve closes his eyes and kisses back.

**Author's Note:**

> u guys should absolutely yell abt stony with me on tumblr when this is revealed!! feel free to leave comments or constructive criticism as well!!


End file.
